The same thing keeps recurring:
a twitching that I cannot subdue.
From time to time a rhythmical crackling,
as of wood settling throughout the house.
At night and by day an easing of tension,
first in the furniture, then in the floor,
in the wall somewhere, the light fixture, my books.
Each time some place new, each time inevitable,
as though building toward an earthquake or
as though a treacherous power were mounting
and the house might collapse, or somebody
immure in the wall would knock and
step through it at any minute. I swallow
with difficulty, ensnared in creaking.
I sense it acutely and I know: the warm silence
of things, the horrible aloneness of primeval,
wearisome matter. Even now the ocean washes over
England. Even now glowing magma settles
beneath our feet. In the dark I decipher the unknown
writing on the wall. In the dark I see huge eyes,
and in dreams a horrible land of whirlwinds.